


for the longest time

by timelykey



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Adoption, Canon Divergence, Didn't Know They Were Dating, Fake Marriage, Fillory, Friends to Lovers, Kid Fic, M/M, Queliot Week, Royal Marriage, Sort Of, a very late entry for queliot week, others appear but in a minor way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 14:24:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19336327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelykey/pseuds/timelykey
Summary: Quentin and Eliot get together on their fifth wedding anniversary.





	for the longest time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stvrryeyed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stvrryeyed/gifts).



> Set in a world where I do what I want. In this fic, Fillory is real, they go there, it looks a lot like Fillory from canon. But Julia got into Brakebills and Kady stayed at Brakebills (because that plot is horrible to them and I do not want to carry it over into this au). This is also a belated gift for the_bird_of_wisdom on tumblr, for the source of light exchange.

Julia gives him a shocked look. ‘I was gone for five minutes!’

 

‘Well, actually -’

 

‘I will murder you, _your majesty._ ’

 

They did the whole coronation thing while Julia was back on earth, too. Maybe Q should have started with that.

 

‘- because of the Fillorian time dilation -’

 

‘I will _burn_ your first editions.’

 

‘ - and the movement of the twin suns and tidal moon -’

 

‘Oh, great, you’re fucking with me, way to take this fucking seriously, Q, I swear I’m telling -’

 

‘- you’ve been on Earth for five minutes, but here, like _three point one four one_  -’

 

‘Don’t bring your pi to eighty decimal places dreams into this -’

 

‘ - and in that time, if you apply a certain analytical framework, I did, maybe -’

 

‘Get fucking _engaged! To be married!’_

 

‘Fine, if we’re going to be Austen about it! I got _engaged to be married!’_

 

\--

 

Eliot looks at Margo and winces delicately. They’re standing with their ears against the doors to the throne room. They’re magicking a chalk tally onto the back of the door when Julia and Quentin score points. Eliot feels like he should be betting on Quentin, but also that Quentin would be the first to understand if he bet on Julia, really.

 

‘This bodes well. Should we-’

 

‘Leave them to it and get drunk on that new Fillorian champagne you hate so much?’

 

‘Bambi, I was going to say I should rescue my -’

 

Margo laughs in his face. Then stops. ‘Oh, gods, you were fucking serious. This is so much worse than I thought.’

 

Julia chooses that moment to yell about _fucking celibacy magic marriage spells_ and Eliot waits it out while Margo smugly chalks a tenth or twelfth line onto Julia’s door.

 

Quentin has two (2) points.

 

Tick squeaks behind them and they both wave him off. ‘But, your majesties -’

 

Eliot looks at the door and back to Margo. He ignores Tick. ‘We could do -’ he tilts his head, voice contemplative. ‘Both?’

 

\--

 

Quentin hides behind his throne. Like the very regal royal he is now.

 

An Earth book goes sailing by. It misses him on purpose. Julia’s not really bad at anything, so if she’d wanted to throw the book at him, that’s what would have happened.

 

‘-and I brought that back for you!’

 

Quentin turns his back to lean against the back of the throne and opens his palms to the ceiling. They used to fight like this from behind opposite sofas or under opposing blanket forts when they were five. It’s kind of comforting, really. ‘Don’t you even want to know who I’m marrying?’

 

‘Yes,’ Julia yells, loudly. ‘So I can ask them what the fuck they’re thinking. Which asshole talking clock agreed to a plan that is _this_ fucked, Quentin? Who are you spending the rest of your life with in fucking _Fillory,_ land of near death experiences, without thinking it through? Who heard this plan to defuse the crisis of the week - _this plan -_ and thought, gee, yes, I see no problems with - oh, hey Eliot, did _you_ hear about this?’

 

Quentin pokes his head out from behind his throne, where he’s been sitting curled up on his legs to present a narrow target for Julia’s ire.

 

Eliot is resplendent in a pale brocade suit. He offers Julia a glass of sparkling bright blue something, and oh no, it’s that disgusting sham-pain he tried to brew magically the other week, _yikes_.

 

‘That looks disgusting.’

 

‘It really is,’ Eliot agrees calmly. He still holds it out. ‘It’s stronger than illegal vodka, though.’

 

Julia necks it.

 

‘Yeah, that’s fucking horrible,’ she agrees and hands Eliot back the glass. ‘Another, if you would.’

 

‘But the vintage at our wedding should be better,’ Eliot says blandly. He steps away and towards his own throne. The full glass hangs in the air in his wake and Julia snatches it with a muttered expletive.

 

Margo turns a laugh into a cough as Julia catches up, then slowly turns on Eliot with huge eyes.

 

Eliot continues, in the most deceptively even of tones, ‘I should have it right by then. It’s the grapes - you can’t magically speed up the growth and retain the flavour.’

 

Julia looks between them, then whirls on Margo, who has her hands raised. ‘That’s what happened? _That’s_ what fucking happened?’

 

Margo nods and crosses her arms with a profound roll of her eyes.

 

Quentin doesn’t understand a single thing that’s happening.

 

‘Oh, fucking _hell,’_ Julia tells the room at large, then sighs. ‘Q, I’m going to look at your wardrobe now. You’re going to need to commission formal wear.’

 

Eliot clears his throat and holds out the bottle. Julia continues not to look at them on principle but takes it. Julia waves it at them. ‘I’m taking this. I’m drinking all of it. I expect more of this.’

 

‘Fantastic idea,’ Eliot puts in.

 

‘Don’t throw away-,’ Quentin attempts, standing up with his hands on the back of his throne. He just got his comfy Earth clothes sent through. While Julia is clearly pissed as all hell, Eliot seems to have averted some kind of explosion, or at least redirected Julia in the direction of his -

 

Well, fuck if he didn’t get played, Quentin thinks, remembering Eliot’s withering assessment of the clothes Quentin pulled out of Fillorian-past-royals storage last week.

 

He groans and holds on to his throne, the symbol of his regal, royal reigning time. That. Well, now it wasn’t fucking cursed to make them kill each other.

 

‘I love you, Q, but sometimes the shit that you pull-’ Julia is ranting as she leaves.

 

The silence in the throne room is excruciating.

 

‘Queen Alice the Wise and Queen Fen!’ Tick announces, loudly, with the aid of two trumpets and a town crier which is a raven with a jaunty hat.

 

‘Oh thank God,’ Eliot says, with all of the drama lining his very bones, and sinks into his throne.

 

‘Have you been there the whole fucking time?’ Margo asks, dropping into her own throne as Alice and Fen wander in past the marching band.

 

‘Yes, it’s been very instructive, majesties,’ Tick replies. ‘I thought you might want to discuss the wedding arrangements. Some time today.’

 

Quentin gives Fen a hand up onto the dais around her flowing, queenly skirts and gestures to his throne. ‘Take it, I’m happy on the floor.’

 

Tick bites off a noise that might be a protest.

 

Fen kisses his cheek on the way. Quentin thinks Fen is a very good egg, honestly. In Fillorian parlance. Which is, in this case, weird British mid-century parlance.

 

‘True power doesn’t need props, Tick,’ Eliot says with a smirk, and Quentin leans back against his knee mainly because it’s there. Eliot puts a hand on his shoulder and Fen leans a leg against him, and Quentin relaxes against them. Maybe this utterly mad plan could actually work.

 

‘That said, we do need to get another throne commissioned so you have one of your own,’ Eliot says to Fen, waving at the seating situation.

 

‘And about one thousand other thrones into the great hall for your great fucking wedding,’ Margo replies, eyes closed against the back of her throne.

 

There’s a pause.

 

‘Do we … have … a great hall?’ Alice asks with a frown, sitting on the edge of her own regal throne precisely, with her ankles crossed. ‘Not that I’m trying to complicate your wedding, which I fully support. … I probably didn’t need to say that, did I?’  

 

Alice and Q share a quick look. There’s a funny camaraderie in knowing that you both feel as awkward as each other. They’re exes, but they haven’t made it all the way to friends yet, what with the magical duel for their lives and traversing a magical land in carriages that gave them time to talk a lot about whether they should break up or not in a weirdly clinical way. And for Q to say sorry for that emotion bottle threesome like eleven billion times, and he knows it wasn’t enough.

 

‘About that great hall, Q? Tick? We are going to need to seriously jack up any venue if Eliot’s getting married in it,’ Margo steers them back to safe waters, bless Margo.

 

Three sets of eyes turn to Quentin. Fen looks round to find out what the others are looking at.

 

Tick is staring at the five of them arrayed on the dais like he’s seeing the fruition of a dream and also that he can’t believe a dream of his would be so very inefficient and disorganised. Quentin supposes they did beat the cursed thrones last week, so it might be sinking in that they’re all stuck with each other.

 

And people think he’s mad for _getting married._ Marriage has nothing on magically binding themselves to the thrones of a vast country on a different planet.

 

‘They mention banquets in the great hall in books one, four and five,’ Quentin answers with a _so what yes I know that one also_ look. ‘I don’t know if it’s real though.’

 

Tick is shifting from foot to foot. ‘Yes, it’s right down the hall, if you’d taken the tour I offered, your- your majesties.’

 

‘Chairs, hall, food, drink,’ Eliot lists. ‘See, we’re halfway there! One big diplomatic wedding reception, coming up.’

 

Tick sighs.

 

\--

 

Eliot slides into Quentin’s room with a nervous look into the hall.

 

‘Espionage, already?’ Quentin asks from his bed. Well, his interim bed. Maybe. They haven’t discussed living arrangements but he knows Fen has a set of rooms of her own.

 

‘The guards who are guarding my person also like to announce my presence,’ Eliot says, leaning back on the door. ‘So much announcing. They announced me to an empty corridor because it had an archway.’

 

Q stifles a laugh and beckons. ‘Oh, wow, that’s - conspicuous.’ Quentin pauses. ‘We do pay people who work here, right?’

 

‘Yes,’ Eliot replies firmly, ‘Everyone got a raise about, oh, three weeks in, when we were just about sure we weren’t going to die? It’s like, the one thing Tick hasn’t fought with _multiple_ sarcastic asides.’

 

Quentin tilts his head and Eliot waves his hand. ‘Apparently wages stalled when the Chatwins disappeared and then everybody else who showed up kept dying before they could bring wages back into line with inflation because of the fucked thrones. Margo, Fen and me fixed it while you were still-’ Eliot makes a stabby motion at his shoulder.  

 

‘Thank you,’ Quentin says and feels reassured, but also guilty for not asking sooner. Maybe that whole five surgeries thing knocked him more than he thought. The first couple of weeks were a haze of tents, Alice reading him letters out loud and that time he got stoned in the woods with Penny because his shoulder _hurt._ After that they zapped him back to the castle to limit his range of stoner roaming.

 

Also, the Fillory books didn’t mention anything so practical as a currency. It was all bartering magic objects and shades. He wouldn’t have been surprised if they traded magic beans at this point. ‘So what you’re saying is that the guards have, like, a really compelling reason to keep you alive.’

 

‘Counter-productive if so. Margo’s rooms are that way,’ Eliot continues and peels himself off the door to standing. ‘She’d brain me with a shoe if I woke her up.’

 

Eliot flops across the soft covers - piles and piles of some kind of Fillorian jersey cotton with pleasantly scratchy embroidery? - and puts his head into Quentin’s lap. ‘Betrothed, I am exhausted. There are so many ledgers. I never knew my life would involve so many ledgers. I haven’t even got my head around the currency yet.’

 

Quentin does laugh at that, for all it’s a lie, but he pushes a hand into Eliot’s hair and scratches along his scalp. For a second, with the warm orange walls, and the soft lights, he can almost believe they’re drunk friends on a couch in a cottage, instead of adults in charge of a country, inexplicably.

 

‘Quentin,’ Eliot draws out the name, so Q braces for something he’s been putting off.

 

‘El,’ Quentin says right back.

 

‘Okay, so, real question. Are you sure about this? I’m … kind of a mess,’ Eliot asks, voice disappearing off the end of his own sentence. ‘Fen didn’t know that.’

 

 _Less of a mess everyday,_ Quentin wants to reply, but he doesn’t think Eliot’s ready for that.

 

And it’s true; Eliot was a tragedy in drunken, free-wheeling motion when they got to Fillory. But something about the place, the crown, the _responsibility_ of it is pulling him in,  quickly.

 

It’s only been a couple of weeks and Quentin already sees his mind at work on the problems facing Fillory. He hears El and Margo and Fen game-planning and strategising over breakfast goblets of peach juice and chips in when he’s awake enough.

 

He found Eliot in the library the other night. He was in front of the big fire in the reading room. Q woke up groggy and waking up covered in a blanket, in a huge armchair with a book of Fillorian history sat neatly to the side. Eliot was across from him, reading a stack of books on Fillorian economics at two in the morning, his legs chucked up on Q’s lap. _What are you doing,_ Q had croaked out, and Eliot had given him a look, _guarding you, obviously._ Quentin had huffed a laugh and gone back to sleep.  

 

He meant it when he said Eliot would be a good king.

 

More than that, Q knows Eliot doesn’t have it in him to watch people he cares about in pain, and somehow that now includes the country of Fillory and everyone in it.

 

‘Are _you_ sure?’ Quentin asks, instead of saying any of that, ignoring the voice in his head calling him a coward. ‘I mean, it’s - a pretty excellent solution to the problem,’ Quentin stalls. Eliot opens one eye and raises an eyebrow. The eyebrow says, _not good enough._ Q rolls his eyes and gets on with it. ‘What if you meet someone else but you’ve - used your other chance. To be with someone.’

 

 _Used it on me,_ he doesn’t finish.  

 

‘Abdicate, run away to America with Mrs Simpson,’ Eliot drawls back, deadpan, then smacks Quentin’s arm while he tries to slow his heart down. ‘You want my stupid answer? If that happens, you abdicate. Fillorian marriage magic only applies to royal lines.’ His face softens and he taps Q’s cheek. ‘I know we’re doing this to save the concept of magic and complete a magical circuit and save magic across the universe or whatever, but you’re never locked in, Q. You say you want to go, you meet someone, you can leave, you and Fen both.’

 

Q shifts and leans back on the pillows, shoves down the fierce _over my dead body am I leaving you here_ that tries to crawl up his throat. Eliot stays where he is, perfectly comfortable to be a dead weight on Quentin’s legs.

 

‘I did actually mean you,’ Quentin replies. ‘I wasn’t asking about a hypothetical friend hypothetically.’

 

Eliot doesn’t answer, just curls a hand around Quentin’s knee and fakes a yawn so obviously Quentin wants to call him out on it, but he doesn’t. ‘I’m staying here tonight.’

 

Quentin holds up a corner of the pile and waves under it. ‘Get in then, fiance. If your wife doesn’t mind.’

 

\--

 

‘Are you going to throw things at me?’

 

Quentin ignores the stares of the royal guards who’ve taken up positions around the hallway like secret agents.

 

‘You can come in,’ Julia generously allows.

 

Quentin chooses not to mention that Julia is in a guest room in a castle he part-owns. That would be shitty, seeing how he went and got en-royalled and engaged in her absence, in flagrant violation of the best friends contract.

 

Quentin brings in the bag of pastries and canister of warm drink.

 

‘It’s not coffee,’ he starts, ever the king of expectation management. ‘There is no coffee in Fillory.’

 

‘Eliot’s wasting his time on champagne when they don’t have coffee?’ Julia sits up in the bed, looking a bit dishevelled but not the hungover disaster he might have expected.

 

‘So, Q.’ Julia says, in a tone, and pokes him in the arm like eight times in a row.

 

‘He said he had to stay,’ Quentin says in a rush, because he can’t lie under pressure. ‘High kings don’t get to leave.’

 

‘So you said, what, I’ll marry you, my good friend, El, Eliot, and stay forever too?’ Julia raises an eyebrow at him. ‘ _That_ escalated quickly.’

 

Quentin shifts awkwardly on the bed.

 

It’s possible Eliot didn’t say that much. It’s possible Eliot looked sad and resigned to getting married to a stranger, again, to save all of them, again. It’s possible that Quentin blurted out that he could do it, he could marry Eliot, you know. Since he was a king anyway. And so Eliot would look less - sad. 

 

Honestly, he feels like Margo and Alice could have at least pretended to be more surprised about the whole thing.

 

‘I can go to earth and back, I’m a - medium king,’ Q says and Julia lets out a long, relieved breath.

 

‘Just say it, Q. He’s a high king and you’re a short king,’ Julia shoots back, and Q nearly pushes her off the bed.

 

‘I just -’

 

‘You wanted him to know you were _coming back_. Oh, Q.’ Julia presses her palms into her face.

 

And if Q had absolutely flashed back, in the moment he’d said _yes, really,_ to Eliot, to that time Eliot had told him _you aren’t alone here,_ it’s not like anyone else was in his head to know.

 

Quentin smiles at Julia and he knows, he knows his face is doing something sappy and bullshit. But he’s been a fool for lesser things, or so the song goes. ‘Um.’

 

Julia pulls him into a hug and doesn’t say anything for a while.

 

‘So you’re getting married,’ Julia says into Quentin’s healed wooden shoulder, and soft, scratchy sweater.

 

‘I think I really am,’ Q replies and hangs on.

 

\--

 

_Five years later_

 

Quentin is the whimsical king, according to rumours he’s overheard while lurking in various quiet corners of Whitespire.

 

Nobody really knows what he’s _for._ Not the way they know that Queen Alice solved the wellspring problem and slew the Beast, or that High Queen Margo took down Christopher Plover mid-spell with an axe when he tried to depose them in year two and unleashed hell on outdated sentient-creature-rights the week after that.

 

Not the way they know that High King Eliot and Queen Fen raised wages and farm subsidies, overhauled the education system (Quentin helped), and that Fen wanders the market to meet the children of the local village and tell them stories. Not the way there’s a whole songbook of Eliot’s adventures on the high seas, and that he banished Ember to a world of pleasing chaos, and led negotiations for Umber to stay on Earth, unbothered, and maintain Fillory’s magical harmonies from a distance.

 

Quentin sits contentedly in the background of the stories, crops up here and there with water, snacks and historical facts, and records of his individual quests have a certain niche following.

 

But there isn’t the same clarity of purpose, the way they know that Lord Penny zapping in and out means precious parcels of Earth food and intergalactic news, the way people know that Penny's arrival means the beloved Lady Julia making a visit or Queen Alice returning from her Earth magic library duties.

 

And Quentin wonders if that’s not how it should be; a whole world a little bit in love with all of his friends because they’re literally heroes of a tale, and -

 

‘Q! I mean, King Quentin! I mean, Q!’

 

Quentin pushes his hair back and puts his hands in his pockets as he wanders through the market that’s grown up around Whitespire. The ten year old flagging him down has shining, huge eyes and breaks things on his stall more often than he sells them, but that’s fine, because Quentin fixes things _and_ buys them at grossly inflated prices he invents on the spot.

 

He’s passing through on his way to do a good day’s hike to the Muntjac’s sea harbour, which has the additional benefit of annoying the heck out of Eliot. He can already hear Eliot yelling about the new improved open-to-all magic carriage network Quentin spent months on and it’s delicious: _what was the point, Quentin, what was the gods bedamned - fine wander the woods and - ugh. Are you sure Fen can’t give you a new weapon?_

 

‘Is the new song about High King Eliot true?’

 

‘Which one?’ Q asks, cautious. There’s a lot of songs about Eliot. Many of the bawdier tavern variety draw parallels between his height and - well, Q is really hoping Joel hasn’t heard those, is Quentin’s point, or he might have to take the licensing law scrolls and go knock on some doors with a threatening expression. Or, well, tell Fen and hope she goes with him. Joel falls into step with him, stall forgotten.

 

But that’s fine, too, because this whole market is right under the walls of Whitespire, and everyone knows that to mess with traders - especially young ones - is to risk the wrath of everyone who loves Quentin, and Quentin himself, so that’s the assorted royalty and national heroes of Fillory and Earth. It’s a whole thing.

 

‘The one about the kray-kin and the sword fight and the dreaming,’ Joel is bouncing up and down and tapping it out on his thigh. Quentin wants to put a tiny old man cap on his head and swing him up onto his shoulder. He doesn’t _have_ a tiny hat, and Joel isn’t shoulder-sized anymore, so he settles for pulling Joel along by the hand.

 

The best thing he ever did was stop by an empty stall full of broken snow globes and coax Joel out from under it.

 

Quentin takes the cups of hot chocolate-style drink from a nearby stall, where the old grey fox and the red fox who run it give him indulgent grins, taking in the sight of his beaten up messenger back and his walking boots.

 

‘Quentin, is Queen Alice attending the celebrations?’

 

The foxes all have a soft spot for Vix, and they aren’t the only ones. In a world of tricky magic and sharp angles, Quentin is eternally glad people and creatures alike can see the value, and the greatness, shining under Alice’s aloofness, and her unwillingness to allow injustice to stand.

 

‘She’ll be through,’ Quentin answers, passing a cup to Joel and at least twice what the order was worth to Feli and Trini. ‘She always comes to the market, so if you miss her at the ball, she’ll visit.’

 

‘That library keeps her too busy,’ Feli scolds. ‘If she’s not setting those librarians to rights, she’s saving the universe with Lord William, Lady Kady and Lady Julia five times for each turn of a sun.’

 

‘Queen Alice is codi-fy-ing the universe,’ Joel says, full of borrowed self-importance and with half the whipped topping on his upper lip.

 

Trini puts a paw over Joel’s hair with a sigh. ‘Some stars are never afix-ed, young Joel.’

 

Quentin swallows a laugh at the mournful look Trini sends him, and Feli gives an exasperated sigh before dismissing them from her court with a wave, like Q and Joel are both ten year old scamps at market. ‘Tell your Da we were asking for him.’

 

‘I will! If he doesn’t see you first!’ Quentin moves them along.

 

‘Trini thinks you love Queen Alice,’ Joel hisses, tugging Q’s hand urgently.

 

‘I do love Queen Alice,’ Quentin hisses back, like he’s imparting a great secret, then tugs Joel into his side. ‘But you can love someone and think it’s really cool that they’re doing stuff without you, too. Now, how did the song go, something about a kraken?’

 

Joel bounces again. ‘So! High King Eliot, he went to sea! And, in the bay! What could it b -’

 

‘Quentin! QUENTIN.’

 

Joel turns with a scowl, his story interrupted _again._

 

Except -

 

_‘High King Eliot, majesty, sir.’_

 

High King Eliot the Spectacular is standing below the walls of his castle, the morning sun picking out the red in his hair from weeks at sea under bright suns. His travel outfit manages to be stupendously regal, all structured shoulders over a soft shirt, and tight leggings with riding boots halfway to his hips, longsword slung across his back. Quentin takes in the picture he makes and definitely, definitely doesn’t swallow, throat dry.

 

Eliot’s face comes to life like an oil painting made real, and he gives Quentin a mortified look. ‘Make him stop that at once.’ He looks at Joel, mock-stern. ‘Stop that at once.’

 

Joel slams into Eliot’s legs, laughing, and wraps an arm around his waist, squirms under his arm while Eliot laughs. Joel shouts: ‘Quentin! Quentin, why are you all the way over there! You were going to walk for days!’

 

Eliot doesn’t comment on the splatters of mud and glitter and hot chocolate getting on his glorious embroidered travel outfit. He puts his arms around Joel and looks at Quentin. His crown is askew and his sword hilt stands out over his shoulder and he’s grinning, bright and happy, a conspiratorial look in his eyes. ‘Yes, Quentin, why are you over there, so far away. Your husband has returned from the sea. Before you could surprise him at the harbour.’

 

Quentin feels himself grinning, unbidden, because Eliot is _so ridiculous,_ and Fillory has _memes_ now. He hears the fond laughter across the market stalls. His legs carry him to Eliot and Joel before he realises he’s moving, and he sees Eliot tap Joel’s shoulder lightly.

 

Joel springs away with a loud ‘UGH’ as Eliot _dips Quentin_ and kisses him full on the mouth and the marketplace cheers and whoops.

 

‘Missed me?’ Quentin asks, lazily hanging in Eliot’s hold while Joel whirls around the nearest stalls. He’s fine. His heart is beating faster than a set of hooves at a gallop, but he’s fine.

 

They do this sometimes. To keep up appearances.

 

Eliot noses at his jaw, as he always does, to complete the illusion, and sighs. ‘Missed you all. You and the rest of the council will be glad to know we’re not at war.’

 

‘Always reassuring,’ Q agrees, letting Eliot pull him back up to standing. Joel squeezes in between them immediately and claims a hand from each of them.

 

‘ELIOT. There’s a new! Song!’

 

Joel doesn’t particularly care about statecraft when there’s a song to yell. It is extremely refreshing and Quentin knows how he feels.

 

‘How’s business today?’ Eliot asks, and Joel makes a frustrated noise.

 

‘It’s fine, but is the song _true,_ did you _fight_ -’

 

They’ve reached the square in the market that’s all green grass and trees tangled in a canopy overhead. There’s logs and a fire pit, and usually all the traders end the day telling stories they know to be false about their day to each other until they’re too drunk to catch a lie.

 

Eliot laughs and tugs Joel’s hand to free his own, motions for Quentin to pull Joel back. Quentin does, both hands on Joel’s shoulders to keep him from zooming around. He has a feeling -

 

Eliot draws his sword with a magical, fiery flourish, and moves into a battle stance. ‘We journeyed far to the land of Loria,’ he declaims, and somehow five more children appear, as if drawn to danger and weaponry. ‘On the way, we met a fierce kraken, who made nightmares that would kill a man. But Queen Margo said, _I am no man -’_

 

Quentin feels himself doubling over around Joel at the blatant Tolkien thievery while he keeps the other kids from Whitespire’s town at a safe range. Joel pulls him down onto the log next to him and keeps Q’s hand in an iron grip, jealously guarding Q’s presence at his side, even when the other kids look over and shuffle near.

 

‘How do you hold a kraken at bay? Who knows?’

 

Lots of hands go up. Eliot points and they shout:

 

‘Hit it!’

 

‘Tell it off!’

 

‘Cut off its head!’

 

‘FIRE SWORD.’

 

The last one is Joel, obviously, who has favourite tropes already, bless him. Quentin is so proud.

 

‘I held it off, while clever High Queen Margo prepared the great spell,’ Eliot tells them, dragging it out and playing with a fire illusion. ‘Not with sword, not with flame - but with a mighty solo rendition of _The Final Countdown_ _!_ ’

 

Eliot strikes a pose as if he has a mic and launches into it. He doesn’t, and Fillory doesn’t, but Eliot has caused it to be such a meme that the gathered kids know what he means and snap upright, copying him.

 

One small girl with a toy bow and arrow shouts ‘MONTAGE’ and Q think Eliot might actually die of happiness.

 

‘Dad made that bit up, didn’t he,’ Joel hisses. He hasn’t moved from Q’s side, burrowed in like they’re at home, in the armchair in the library, the one that seems to get bigger while Joel gets bigger.

 

Quentin looks fondly, helplessly at his friend, who is also his husband. Then he looks fondly, helplessly at their son and tugs him in closer. Joel leans on his ribs, kicking his feet happily on the log.

 

‘I mean, really,’ Joel stage-whispers, frowning, ‘who sings to a kraken?’

 

‘You’d be surprised,’ Quentin stage-whispers back, and catches Eliot’s eyes with a grin over Joel’s head.

 

\--

 

Eliot and Quentin eventually make it back to the castle, Joel taking full advantage of Eliot briefly relinquishing his sword to climb on his back. Quentin swings it over his back instead, feels it click onto a hook that appears on his messenger bag strap, which is magically strong enough to hold it.

 

He really loves magic, sometimes.

 

Joel runs into the castle, as impatient to be let down as he was to get onto Eliot’s back. Julia is brushing off dust in the atrium from her long white wrap over athleisure outfit. Castle staff bustle in and out of the atrium, carrying vases, flowers, dishes, strings of glass globes and more - the castle tends to be full of life and noise nowadays, but even for them, it’s busy. Tick is in his element, yelling orders at people who actually listen to him, unlike the royal family, as he pointedly told Q that morning at breakfast. 

‘Lady Julia!’ 

Julia laughs and sweeps up Joel for a hug before putting him down again. ‘Buddy, do I have some stories for you!’

 

‘You’re here for the party?’ Joel asks, looking around as if Penny, Alice and Kady are going to appear out of nowhere. Which, to be fair, they often do.

 

‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ Julia says, and gives Q and then Eliot a one-armed hug without letting go of Joel. ‘Five years, huh?’

 

Julia gives Quentin a pointed look.

 

Quentin looks over his shoulder and elbows Eliot, meaning: _save me._ They have a whole bunch of other signs and quirks of facial expressions to use when negotiating treaties or hosting foreign monarchs and ambassadors, but half the fun is Julia noticing and rolling her eyes. ‘When’s Margo getting in?’

 

‘She stopped at that village with the witch problem,’ Eliot shrugs and squeezes Q’s hand. ‘So the witches will be fine, but the as- bad- assholes harassing them will probably not be fine.’

 

Julia looks between them and laughs. ‘Are you still trying not to swear in front of this guy?’

 

‘It’s hilarious,’ Joel answers, tugging on Julia’s sleeve. ‘They try so hard. Like I didn’t grow up in a market. Are you gonna hang out with me and grandad tonight?’

 

‘I know, they’re ridiculous. Sure am, but -’ Julia frowns at Joel, mock-serious. ‘I heard rumours someone is building a model of the Muntjac?’

 

Julia winks at them and leads Joel away up the grand stairs, Joel yelling gleefully about the kit of paints and tiny brushes Julia’s produced from her travel bag.

 

\--

 

Quentin, stood still on the stairs, feels the dizzying kind of whiplash that he gets sometimes. It’s just - sometimes Joel sounds _so old._ And sometimes he sounds like a kid. Quentin can’t get used to it, and he knows it’s only going to get more and more jarring as he turns into a teenager.

 

Joel is ten, and he’s lived with them since he was around five and a half (they estimate). They’d only been married six months when Q found him in the tiny, brand new market that solidified the optimism that maybe, this time some kind of coherent government would stick. That some people were beginning to think that it was safe to be near Whitespire.

 

Joel had stowed away on a cart, with no memory of his own name and the knowledge that his parents were gone but not how or why. He’d been trying to get a bit of food and had taken out a whole stall of snow globes in the process.

 

Quentin had taken one look at Joel as he shivered in rags in the wreckage. He’d put his black hoodie on Joel (it came down to his knees and then some) and told the shocked stall-holder he’d be back in the morning with money for the damages.

 

Eliot had looked between them, standing in the atrium covered in dirt and glitter. He’d looked between Quentin and Joel with a complicated, fast-changing look, then up at Quentin with a look that understood immediately what Quentin was asking (but had already decided). He’d squatted in front of Joel, tilted his head and said, _Come on, then, let’s get you cleaned up, mucky pup. And get you some real food._

 

And that - after some complicated, panicked _that_ \- had been that.

 

Years later, when Joel was more used to Quentin’s habitual mending of minor objects, he’d asked, nervous: ‘Did you _mend_ all the snowglobes?’

 

Quentin had nearly dropped the object he was working on. He’d flailed - and looked straight at Eliot, slammed sideways by a loop of his mom telling him about everything he broke.

 

Eliot, who had slid down to sit cross-legged in front of Joel, looked at him very seriously and took one of Quentin’s hands as an aside.

 

‘Your dad can fix a lot of things but not everything. So he didn’t fix the snow globes,’ Eliot told Joel. ‘But the Housemartins sold the snow globes to look after their family. So your dad made sure they were okay and paid for the broken snow globes, so you didn’t hurt anyone. He made sure you were okay and the glass didn’t hurt you. And if you hadn’t broken the snow globes, we might not have met you at all, and we’re very glad that we did, okay?’

 

Joel had nodded, lip quivering and like he might cry. Quentin pulled him into a hug and tried to find words, but ended up quietly crying into Eliot’s shoulder instead, even after Joel had run off into the castle like the seven-year-old kid he was, moment of doubt forgotten.

 

\--

 

Eliot tugs Quentin’s arm, shaking him out of the memory. Quentin squeezes his arm back and nudges Eliot. ‘What do you want to do? You know, before Tick finds you and claims you for useful, important matters.’

 

Eliot groans into his shoulder, speaks against Q’s skin through the thin shirt. Q is fine with this. ‘Sometimes I think it’s all flying ships and questing and cute husbands waiting in the harbour. Then I remember: taxes.’

 

Quentin grins and cups the back of Eliot’s neck, rubbing a thumb just under Eliot’s hairline. Eliot groans and relaxes into it, hand tightening on Quentin’s hip.

 

Ah, Quentin thinks, tonight might be one of _those_ times.

 

Passing castle staff conceal smiles, badly, at the sight. They’ve never explained the whole platonic-marriage-except-when-it-isn’t-for-the-sake-of-all-magic thing to anyone beyond the immediate questing group but they’ve never bothered to correct all of the assumptions clearly being made all over the place either.

 

Somehow, it’s easier to just - be them about it. And Quentin really doesn’t want to start being weird about being tactile with Eliot in front of Joel, even if it blurs the lines with Eliot, because although he’s happy and well-adjusted in every way they could think of to check, there’s still a tiny remaining layer of insecurity where Joel looks to them to make sure he’s not doing anything _wrong_ sometimes.

 

Joel didn’t speak much at first - mostly he dragged them to things and pointed, or clung to one or both of them when he needed to, and stayed in their beds at night for the first year. His first language was, primarily, touch, and it was still his first port of call if he was experiencing a lot of emotions.

 

They’d let him shadow a couple of trusted market traders when he wasn’t in school - with concealed guards nearby - to help him socialise in a familiar environment, and the habit took.

 

‘Why don’t I steal you for a nap, then we go find our kid and watch him be painfully cute with my dad and Julia?’

 

Eliot brightens and straightens up. ‘Your dad’s here? I thought he was still on that quest, what’s that, like the third one this year - you know, the one to find the -’

 

Quentin nods, ‘The crystal cave with the stairs up the mountain, yeah, he got back a couple of days ago.’

 

Eliot shakes his head at Quentin and grins. ‘You come by it honestly, Coldwater.’

 

Quentin laughs, ‘He blames me, you know. Maybe we’ll both go together next time.’

 

Ten minutes later, still in traveling clothes, they’re both lying on the master bedroom’s massive bed, curled up around each other, fast asleep.

 

\--

 

_Three days later_

 

The party for Eliot and Quentin’s fifth wedding anniversary is, as advertised, spectacular, and basically infinite.

 

Eliot grins and opens the double doors to the New Great Hall with a flourish of telekinesis and a triumph of a choral serenade. It is deeply ridiculous, especially when everyone - all the thousands of delegates gathered from near and far, the market to the Floating Mountain, the fairies and the Lorians - turn to greet the royals as one, and a single shaft of light falls from nowhere to illuminate them in the doorway.

 

‘Bit much?’ Eliot says out of the corner of his mouth.

 

‘Never,’ Fen replies with a gracious smile and a queenly wave.

 

‘It’s nice- oh my _god_ is that _Earth stars,’_ Quentin replies, breaking off to spin around, forgetting all of the entrance walk Eliot made them rehearse weeks ago. ‘Is that the _Earth’s moon._ Is that - _’_ he turns, mentally calculating where - ‘Mars - Jupiter?’

 

Fen is giving him a soft look and Margo is pulling him to get him out of the doorframe.

 

Eliot grabs his other hand and tugs him forward, muttering darkly about the timing of steps to the flourishes, but grinning and sneaking looks while Q rambles about the stars as viewed from the northern hemisphere - say, upstate New York - of planet Earth.

 

They spend the evening wandering around the party, which is basically a giant market with a much, much bigger central space for stories and dancing, until Eliot manages to pull him and Fen into the dancing against his will, but much to Fen’s delight. There are at least three dance floors.

 

Julia and Quentin’s dad bring Joel around the stalls, Joel on Ted Coldwater’s shoulders, and Quentin wishes, suddenly, achingly, for _cameras._ They have a couple, and phones, but they always forget to charge them.

 

Julia taps him on the shoulder and raises a DSLR around her neck with a grin. ‘I’m leaving this and like, ten pre-charged batteries. I’ll bring you print outs from Earth.’

 

Quentin hugs her and doesn’t know how to let go - how close they came, so many times, to not having any of this. To not having room for Eliot’s wildly generous melodrama, their sprawling castle of a family, stretched across worlds, to having Q’s _dad_ know Q’s _son._

 

The first half of the night passes in a montage of camera clicks: Q and El and Margo at the candy floss stand with Joel and his dad, introducing selfies to Tick and the high council, so many shots of people spinning and hugging and laughing. Julia and Q pressed in against each other for a selfie; Margo and Eliot striking a pose. Penny and Kady passing Fen between them in a complicated dance with a lot of spinning and swapping, Kady and Eliot onstage with the band. Margo and Joel talking fast, all hands, while Joel pulls Margo towards the musicians.

 

Quentin holds out a hand for the camera when he sees Eliot lift and spin Joel, turning so his son is against a starry night. He catches Eliot’s jaw, curls, crown and hands in the picture, too, and Joel’s smile, eyes closed and crinkling at the sides.

 

‘Print that one?’ Quentin asks, past the lump in his throat that exists for no reason. No reason except his husband, co-parent and co-sleeping/sometimes sex buddy is spinning their son in the starry sky he built, just for them.

 

Julia just smiles.

 

\--

 

Fen cuts in on Quentin and Margo, who are ignoring the called out steps and dancing a waltz against the tide. Fen and Quentin swing passably around a few waltz steps before Fen says: ‘Q, what if I went to Earth for a while?’

 

‘You want to see gifs in real life?’

 

‘I want to see the _jifs_ , yes,’ Fen corrects him, like the queen that she is. ‘Maybe eat some pizza. Julia was telling me about places I could visit.’

 

‘You’re telling me, not asking me,’ Q says softly, and spins her, and Fen puts both hands on Q’s shoulders.

 

‘Eliot doesn’t mind,’ Fen replies, tilts her head. ‘And I’ll come back. I’ll always come back.’

 

Q feels like his heart could burst.

 

Eliot and Fen are married, of course, but they have an unconventional partnership that hinges on them being family, but not bed mates. Quentin watched Fen fall in and out of love with Eliot those first difficult years, tried to support her while he watched her grow into a formidable, beloved queen in her own right.

 

Fen ate up Earth stories and drawings and - when they could get them - movies on tablets. Fen visited Earth with the Earth gang, and he knows that when Alice left for Earth and the Library, Fen almost went with her.

 

Everyone focused on the children of Earth finding out there was a whole world of Fillory out there; Quentin wished more people thought about the children of Fillory finding out there was a whole _Earth_ out there.

 

(The timing had sucked. There had been rumours of an uprising; she’d stayed, it hadn’t happened, and she’d _stayed_ for them and helped them balance a country and figuring out how to be parents to Joel.)

 

Quentin decides to be inconvenient and break the dance pattern. He stops and hugs Fen tight, because she’s funny and kind and lovely, and he loves her, too. He’s going to miss her so much. Joel’s going to miss her _so much,_ but that’s not a reason for her to stay, not when she’s done so much more than duty or love could have asked of her.

 

‘You’ll visit like, a lot,’ Quentin asks, voice hoarse. ‘Tell us how happy you are?’

 

Fen holds on just as tight and Quentin meets Margo’s eyes across the room. Margo’s eyes are full and she’s giving Quentin a look like she knows. Quentin knows this is going to be harder on Margo, and holds her eyes, makes a note to find her and hug her later. Makes a note to make sure she gets a couple of days of her own with Joel on a trip somewhere they’ll both like soon, massive council portfolio be damned.

 

Fen nods against Quentin’s shoulder. ‘I’ll visit so much you’ll be begging me to leave. If I lost you, I’d rend my garments and howl at the stars.’

 

They’ve all gotten a bit more dramatic the longer they live with Eliot. Or maybe that’s why they gravitated towards each other in the first place.

 

‘We did enough, right?’

 

Quentin knows that Fen means: will Eliot be okay? Will Joel? Can I go, can I leave Fillory?

 

Quentin wants to cry. He gets it, suddenly, the way Fen has been building schools, the way Fen has been changing the constitution and healthcare and pushing Quentin into Eliot’s room at night more and more.

 

The way she always took the position of cool aunt to Joel, loved him with her whole heart, but made sure Eliot and Q and Margo were his parents first. The way she visited her father at the forge for the winter and came back with red eyes.

 

Quentin realises, belatedly, that he’s crying into Fen’s gorgeous dress. At least his kingly eyeliner is magically waterproof, care of Margo.

 

He wonders if he’s the last to understand that Fen’s been building them a home so she could leave to find her own and so she'd know they’d be okay.

 

Abruptly, Quentin remembers Eliot saying, once upon a lifetime ago, _are you sure about this? I’m … kind of a mess. Fen didn’t know that._

 

Q and Fen are weeping on each other under Eliot’s enchanted Earth stars and moon; he wonders if Eliot ever figured out that Fen knew all along, and chose to stay and loved them anyway. 

 

\--

 

‘Hey, Q,’ Eliot cuts in later, when Quentin is finishing a dance with Margo and bowing to her deeply, with a muttered thanks to Margo. Quentin is clearly imagining things when he thinks he sees Margo mutter back, _go for it_. ‘Did Ted get out okay?’

 

Quentin steps into Eliot’s hold and lets Eliot spin them gently. The party is slowing down, some folk heading off and the rest settling in for the long haul. ‘Yeah, I think like, half the guest list came to say hello to him from some quest or another. They got out of here eventually.’

 

Ted Coldwater had taken a full hour to leave the party, even with Joel Theodore Coldwater-Hanson-Waugh of Fillory asleep on his shoulder.

 

‘I thought he wouldn’t sleep,’ Q says into Eliot’s shoulder. ‘I was thinking it might turn into a -’

 

‘Midwinter situation,’ Eliot groans and tugs him in, cutting through Q’s shuffling forward to pull them pretty much against each other, rotating quietly to the enchanted music. ‘Yeah, I wondered if the candyfloss was an awful idea worthy of song, but I figured we’d handle it, and we could probably get him to dance enough to tire him out.’

 

‘Hey, El,’ Quentin opens after a beat of comfortable silence, ‘happy anniversary.’

 

‘Quentin-’ Eliot looks around the dance floor and the still-crowded hall, then sets his face like he’s made a decision and he’s not sure if he likes it. ‘Want to see something else? Like a place - thing-  I’m not making a sex joke.’

 

Quentin laughs and steps back with a slight bow. ‘Lead on. I trust you completely.’

 

Eliot swallows, looks floored for a second, and then tugs Quentin’s hand. Quentin allows himself to be pulled to a corner of the great hall to a fairy door he’s never seen before, waving to their friends on the way.

 

If Penny turns to Julia and Kady and says, ‘Fucking still with this? I hate them,’ Quentin chooses not to hear it.

 

Eliot pulls him through a tunnel he’s not seen before, but it brings them out onto a familiar balcony. It’s the balcony that overlooks the fruit gardens, and who knew Fillorian fruit sometimes glowed in the dark? It’s pretty, and the reason Whitespire is covered in balconies on this side of the castle walls.

 

They’ve claimed this one as theirs since the night of their wedding reception, when they’d both just about had panic attacks, and stumbled out onto it to calm down.

 

‘Espionage, Quentin.’

 

‘Did you see Penny’s _face?’_

 

Eliot laughs.

 

They stand there, staring at each other for a minute in the light of the glow in the dark fruit, and Eliot steps forward one step. Quentin meets him halfway. Then they both -

 

‘Q?’

 

‘El?’

 

Eliot runs his hands through his hair and Quentin sees glimmers of the much younger Eliot he met, stumbling into Brakebills.

 

‘This is - I wanted to -’ El breaks off with an annoyed sigh directed at the Fillorian starry night above them.

 

Quentin bites his cheek and tries not to grin. The light that there is glints off of El’s crown, the one Q forgets he wears sometimes. It’s become such a part of him, the same way their crowns have become such a part of Q and Margo too.

 

Sometimes they sit just as heavy, and sometimes resting so lightly while they dance and lift their kid.

 

The thing is, Quentin’s stomach was twisting and turning the whole time they danced and went through the tunnel.

 

He wants to reach up and kiss El, knock his crown off to get his hands in his hair. But, with the swooping sensation of his stomach falling through the floor, he realised somewhere in the party that he wanted to do it _for real._ He wants to be married _for real._

 

‘Have I said thank you?’ Q starts, and reaches across the foot of space between them to pick up Eliot’s hand where they’re hanging limply at his side, like he’s forgotten what to do with them.

 

Eliot rolls his eyes. ‘For the party? You know I did that for me.’

 

Quentin grins up at him. He knows that. He also knows El put up stars he doesn’t miss, and brought in musicians Joel loves, and invited all of Q’s dad’s friends first. That at least three of the stalls had Margo’s favourite snacks and drinks, that he stockpiled Fen’s favourite Earth drinks for weeks, and that he spent _months_ working with the library - which he hates - to figure out how to make all of the portals and fountains align in time for this one night.

 

‘Maybe I meant everything,’ Quentin says, instead, rubbing his thumb across the back of Eliot’s hand.

 

Eliot makes an aborted movement to pull back and Quentin keeps a loose hold. ‘As if I shouldn’t be thanking you.’ He swallows and forces himself to meet Q’s eyes with a concerted effort. ‘I saw your face when you saw the sky on Earth tonight.’

 

‘It was great,’ Q answers. It was a bit more than great. It was a hit of _home_ in his geeky gut, but it was a home that never fit him when he lived there, not like how the Whitespire they’ve built fits his every day and his worst and best days.

 

He used to get up in the morning and not know what to do with himself, but here he’s got Eliot, Margo, Fen, Joel, his dad and Tick. He’s got the market. He’s got a kingdom that always needs something. And that’s on a slow day, if Julia, Penny, Kady or Alice aren’t dropping in for a few days.

 

Q knows why Fen is leaving, but he feels like he’s found the corner of the universe that was waiting for him all along, and he knows under his ribs that it exists because they all fought for it - Eliot and Margo most of all.

 

Quentin tugs Eliot forward and puts a hand around his waist, then points up. ‘But this is home now, you do get that, right? I’m not leaving. Margo’s not leaving.’

 

Eliot pulls him in and keeps him pressed there, against his chest. It reminds Quentin a little of when they both used to pick up Joel like a talisman against harm and carry him around on their backs even when he was too old for it.

 

His heart is hammering against Quentin’s jaw. Q rubs his hands up and down El’s back.

 

‘I really like being married to you, Q.’

 

A couple of years before, Quentin would wonder if he’d misheard. But they’re five years older and wiser, and they’ve done most of that growing up together.

 

‘I like being married to you so much,’ Q says, laughs against Eliot at the absurdity of the statement. He looks up and tilts his head, then steps back and grabs Eliot’s hand. ‘Come on, let’s go to the library.’

 

Eliot follows, a confused look on his face. ‘Wait, weren’t-’

 

Q nods and grins, turning so Eliot stops right in front of him, no room to brake. He leans up, takes Eliot’s face between both his hands and kisses him soundly. Eliot makes a noise and puts his arms around Quentin to hold him steady.

 

‘Quentin - Quentin -’ Eliot pulls back far enough to kiss his forehead, his jaw, his cheek. ‘Why are we going to the library when we have two bedrooms? And your dad is on call for Joel for the whole night?’

 

It’s a fair question. And it wouldn’t be the first time they’d kissed, or had sex, or slept in the same bed. It wouldn’t even be the first time _this week._

 

Because Quentin remembers giving in to how much he wanted to kiss Eliot somewhere around a year after they’d adopted Joel.

 

They’d gotten into the habit of sleeping in the same bed, or sleeping in pairs in teams with Margo, because Joel didn’t like waking up in a room alone, and he’d slept in fits and starts that were painfully familiar to Quentin.

 

But they’d neither of them had sex in a while. Eventually, they’d decided they could keep it casual, vaguely secret and totally platonic, a whole having sex and being married thing. Just a release. Honest. Just another thing they did for each other, when they knew Joel was in with Margo or Q’s dad for the night.  

 

The problem was that Quentin had realised he really liked being married. That he was proud of being able to call Eliot his husband, that he did it with a little catch in his throat.

 

He liked knowing someone had his back and that his someone was Eliot. And he liked waking up with Eliot’s mouth on his bare shoulder. He liked that Eliot made a completely un-royal grumbling noise when he tried to get up before Eliot was awake.

 

He liked that they had a son who yelled their names and nicknames as often as ‘dad’, and when Joel shouted ‘dad’, they both turned round.

 

Everything else they did as a team was real. All the things they did as a team were the most important things Quentin had ever done, so it was near-impossible to tell himself this one thing was just a practical arrangement.

 

He’d never known if Eliot felt the same way back. He’d thought Eliot was much more competent at keeping things casual, and mental boundaries, than Q had ever been in his whole life.

 

Except Eliot was pushing him down into the armchair in the library and kissing him like he might die if he stopped, kneeling between Q’s knees and pulling him down into the kiss, and it _feels_ so necessary and luxurious all at once, the opposite of a practical arrangement. ‘Is this, like, a thing for you? Because some of these books can definitely see and hear us.’

 

Quentin laughed and kissed him back. ‘I was going to propose to you, but if you’d rather do this, just lock the door with your brain, okay?’

 

Eliot stopped, frozen, eyes wide. Then he shook his head. ‘Q, I don’t know how to tell you this, but we’re definitely married. You were there. Like, a thousand people were there.’

 

Quentin taps him on the shoulder and points at the fire, demanding. El rolls his hand like he’s passing a coin through his fingers, and the fire roars to life.

 

Some of the wooden bookshelves creak because the books are straining towards the warmth, the fools.

 

Quentin reaches a hand out and pushes back gently, feeling which ones need his repair magic, and he gentles them back into their shelves, spines flush.

 

He makes the mistake of watching Eliot watch him, eyes dancing with amusement and heat. Eliot claims his hand back and kisses it. ‘Fuck, I love watching you do magic. You got the best discipline out of all of us.’

 

Quentin feels his own skin flush. He’s not sure he’d go that far, but he can’t go into the market or a town in Fillory without being handed a small, broken thing, and he doesn’t mind being King Quentin, repairer of children’s toys, old books and precious keepsakes, not one bit.

 

‘Don’t distract me,’ Q chides Eliot gently, and kisses him.

 

‘The books distracted you first,’ Eliot replies. ‘From,’ he hesitates, ‘proposing to me?’

 

‘Yeah, that,’ Quentin replies. He feels himself pulled to the edge of the chair and practically onto Eliot’s folded up legs. ‘I realised neither of us got to - do that.’

 

‘We didn’t get to choose, you mean,’ Eliot frowns, and puts his forehead against Q’s.

 

‘No, I mean,’ Quentin sighs and leans back. ‘Fuck, El, I don’t know what I’m trying to tell you. I chose you. I offered. I didn’t know I was offering to fall in love with you. But I think I kind of hoped?’

 

‘You hoped this would happen? That we’d fall in love, move in together, get married, have a kid with Margo, save a kingdom?’ Eliot says, sceptical, and Quentin’s brain quietly chants _we'd_ _fall in love, we'd fall in love, we'd fall in love._

 

‘Yeah,’ Quentin replies quietly and he feels the truth of it that settles into his bones, as true as the rug beneath his feet. ‘I think I hoped we’d do all of that. I didn’t know we’d do it in the weirdest order humanly possible -’

 

Eliot kisses him hard. Q covers his hands with his own, because Eliot’s hands are shaking.

 

‘-but I wanted to ask you if you’d be interested in, you know, keeping going, for maybe, like, another fifty years,’ Quentin says, and this is all wrong for a proposal.

 

There’s a roaring fire, yes, but they’re sitting in a tangle in front of perfectly good chairs instead of on them, and if either of them is kneeling, it’s Eliot.

 

Eliot gathers Quentin up and buries his head in Q’s neck, which is his favourite hiding place for his face on any given day, even the days they weren’t sharing a bed (just a life).

 

‘I thought I’d trapped you here. I thought you were going to be miserable here, for the sake of some old promise you didn’t think through, like, at all -’

 

‘Excuse me, I -’

 

‘You didn’t, though,’ Eliot corrects him gently, and he doesn’t look up. ‘You couldn’t hide a single thought that crossed your brain and your whole face back then.’ He pauses. ‘I grudgingly concede you are marginally better at that now.’ Quentin swats his back. ‘But my point, before I was rudely interrupted, is that - you offered, and I was so relieved it could be _you_ that I took advantage.’

 

Quentin sighs and rocks Eliot back and forward a little. He knew Eliot was harbouring guilt about it, but -

 

‘El, Fillory saved your life-’

 

‘But it didn’t have to mean yours-’

 

‘- and you saved mine, and being here saved my dad’s life, and my sanity.’

 

‘Yes, but would you _want_ me when you had a choice? When there weren’t like ten councils who would come at us about stability in the realm for fucking someone else? That matters.’

 

 _‘Yes,’_ Quentin replies, cuts Eliot off at the pass, voice hard. He gives Eliot his sternest expression. ‘I offered to marry you _because_ I loved you already. Look, it took me, like, five years to understand that, but give me some credit for catching up, okay?’

 

‘I said yes because I loved you,’ Eliot answers into the silence. ‘I’ve always hated myself for that.’

 

‘So next project: learning how to stop,’ Quentin says, and knows he’s oversimplifying a lot of work ahead for them both. ‘I’m where I want to be. While we do that. Marry me for real?’

 

'Yes, if you'll - yes, fuck,' Eliot mouths into Quentin's neck, pulls back and kisses him. 'You would?'

 

 _Saying I'd marry you was the easiest thing I ever said,_ Quentin thinks, and kisses him back. 'In front of a thousand people, if that's what you need.'

 

'No, just -' Eliot holds him tight, like he might never let go. 'Just this.' 

 

 

\--

 

A year later, they get married again outside under Fillorian stars, in front of a triumphant group of just friends and family, with steady hands. 

 

\--

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> First fic in four years; bloody magicians. 
> 
> Quentin's two (2) good points in the argument with Julia were: 'it'll save magic' and 'you like magic.' He made no other good points. Margo tried to make a case for them being the same point, but Eliot pretended not to be able to hear her and gave Quentin a second point.
> 
> Yell with me on tumblr about it at [timelykey.](https://timelykey.tumblr.com)


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